Nothing Personal: A Novel of Wall Street (14 page)

“And that’s not the whole deal, either,” Kevin said. “The cops told us we could all be arrested for skiing out-of-bounds, and I’ve been kicked off the mountain for the season. Man, I’m stuck with this house, and I can’t ski here anymore.”

“Hey, Kev, that’s very sensitive of you,” Warren chimed in. “Maybe Anna will rent it from you to recuperate.” He was angry at Kevin. Skiing out-of-bounds had all been his idea, and all this guy could think about was his fucking
ski pass
?

Everyone piled into Kevin’s Land Rover, and they skidded down the mountain and then into town. By the time they got to the hospital, Anna’s condition had deteriorated. She was unconscious and was undergoing surgery to relieve pressure on her brain from swelling. The police had notified her family in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, who were arranging to fly in as soon as possible.

Warren found Larisa in the waiting room. Her eyes were red rimmed, and she looked badly shaken. He hugged her, and she spilled tears, blaming herself for helping talk Anna into the risky skiing when she was obviously tired. Warren soothed her, saying that Anna was an adult and made the decision herself, just as he and Kate had decided not to, and Kevin had been the instigator.

“God, Warren, it was like half of her head was missing. I don’t see how she’s going to survive that.”

He noticed blood on Larisa’s ski pants and shuddered. “Ugh … I’m so sorry you had to see that. It must have been horrible.”

“I must be jinxed,” she said, shaking her head.

“Jinxed? Larisa, this happened to Anna, not you.” Warren regretted it as soon as he said it.

“
You think I don’t know that?
Jesus! Back in Charlottesville, a girl in my class was hit by a car when we went shopping for our prom dresses. I had to see that, too. I know it happened to her, but I don’t understand why I had to see it.” Larisa was crying, shivering, and trembling all at once, and Warren just kept quiet, holding her in his arms, until she stopped. They just sat there, holding each other, waiting.

After two hours, the surgeon came into the waiting room and introduced himself. Unfortunately, Anna’s chances did not look good, he said. She had severely injured her brain in the fall and was currently unable to breathe without a respirator. Her vital signs were weak, and he did not know if she would live out the night. He told them that medicine could do nothing more for her, and that it was a miracle she had survived the fall at all.

The sad group gathered in the hospital cafeteria. They decided that Nino and Warren would wait at the hospital. Nino wanted to be sure that if Anna didn’t make it, her family didn’t get the call from a doctor or a policeman, but from one of her friends. If she did, they’d trade shifts until the family arrived.

As they stood up to leave, their decision was made moot. Anna hadn’t made it out of the recovery room. Larisa and Kate broke into sobs, and the three young men all sat down. Warren thanked the nurse and got the family’s phone number from Larisa. Nino was too upset, so Warren made the call. He was relieved when he got a family friend, who told him Anna’s parents were on the way to the airport. He gave her the horrible news, and she assured him they would get it before they got on the plane. He and Kevin then went to the hospital’s main office and signed the necessary forms to keep Anna’s body waiting for her family, and to take financial responsibility for her bills, if necessary.

“It’s just a business precaution. Nothing personal,” the cashier had said. “I’m sure she had good medical coverage.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Warren had replied.

They had all stayed until Sunday morning, when Anna’s parents arrived. They were beyond consolation. Kevin simply told them that they had been having a great time skiing, and that she’d died doing something she loved and was good at. It was the truth, and her father acknowledged it and actually thanked Kevin, despite knowing that he had led his daughter under the safety ropes and taken her where she should not have been.

The trip home was endless and depressing, with Larisa sleeping most of the way. Nino had stayed behind. Warren tried to occupy his mind with driving, and positive thoughts, such as the beautiful new apartment he had just rented, but by the time he reached the Bronx, he couldn’t wait to get back to the office, to get his mind off the vital young woman who had fallen, literally, on the rocks. Maybe Kevin could just forget about it, and Warren had no doubt that most of the people he worked with would just shrug something like that off as bad luck, but what was the point of this relentless pursuit of money when there was so much more to life? Even Kevin had spent a couple years climbing mountains. What had Warren ever done, except play tennis and get from paper to paper or test to test? So far, Malloran was the only person he’d met at Weldon who seemed like a decent, well-rounded human being. Malloran could talk about art and literature and confessed that he’d been a French-movie freak in college. A Finance Associate working with him on a valuation had told him Malloran was an advanced scout Army Ranger in Vietnam, something he never mentioned to anyone. It figured—a guy who was a hero in a doomed war, and he didn’t even bring it up. All the guys on the trading floor ever talked about was sex, sports, or money. Warren wondered if that’s what he was going to become.

Through the windshield, the rays of late-afternoon sunlight slanted across the thin winter sky and washed up against the stone and glass towers of Manhattan. The fiery light was without heat, but bathed in it the city looked like a vast furnace, an engine that powered greed, envy, and lust and that would carry Warren to a destination he had yet to decide—if his fate would even be in his own hands.

fourteen

“Can you believe this?” Warren opened the door to his new apartment; Larisa stepped into the foyer after him.

From Central Park West, Eighty-First Street runs one block from the green oasis of Central Park to Columbus Avenue as a broad, Parisian boulevard. On the south side, two long, even rows of old honey-locust trees form an elegant colonnade that flanks the Museum of Natural History and the Planetarium park. The apartment houses that line the north side of the street benefit from the open-air space and the southern exposures, with sweeping views over the West Side and Central Park to the towers of Central Park South. Warren’s new home was a four-and-a-half-room aerie on the tenth floor of the building just off the corner of Central Park West. He had sublet it, with an option to buy after a year, from a soap opera actress whose business manager had stolen most of her money. Built in 1908, the building was an ornate beaux arts pile with twelve-foot ceilings and huge French windows.

“Jesus, it’s like one of those great Parisian apartments!” Larisa exclaimed, spinning around in the living room. It was her first visit. Warren had moved just three days before from the tiny, dark brownstone apartment on Seventh-Seventh Street off Third Avenue he’d been living in since coming to the city. He’d told her his new place was as small as a closet, so she would be surprised.

It had been a good week. Larisa had also just heard back from the investment banks, and Weldon had offered her a spot in the Corporate Finance training class, one of the lucky twenty out of maybe a thousand applicants. She’d also been offered jobs at JP Morgan and Merrill. She’d accepted Weldon.

“Well, at least it has a nice view.” From the windows, the buildings along Central Park South and Fifth Avenue stood sentinel over the park, dwarfing its trees and looming over its lawns and paths. He’d snapped the place up when the broker showed it to him.

“So, is this one of the rewards for being a big bond salesman?” She wrapped an arm around his neck and gave him a soft kiss.

“I’m afraid so. God, forget the apartment! I can’t believe you’re going to work at Weldon!”

“That’s right. You’re dating a Finance geek.”

“Well, I always wanted a banker with great legs, but Paul Volcker was taken.” Warren ran his hand up her calf, then up under her skirt. He leaned over and they kissed, while his hands explored.

“It’s not too late. I hear he’s getting a divorce,” she whispered in his ear, making his neck tingle.

“That slut. She didn’t deserve him. Only I can make Paul truly happy.” Warren affected a heavy lisp. He had her shirt open, and her skirt mostly down her hips. They fell backward onto the sofa.

“I don’t know. Don Regan has better teeth. I would have thought you’d go for the treasury secretary over the chairman of the Fed.” Larisa undid Warren’s belt, and he started kissing his way down her belly.

“Nah. It’s Volcker I really want. But, in the meantime, I know just the thing for the girl who has everything.…”

She closed her eyes as his lips reached their target.

*   *   *

“So, who told you you got the job? Was it Jillene?” Warren had his head propped up on one elbow, and an open carton of delivery rotisserie chicken was between them on the bed.

“Yup. She says, ’Weldon is interested in you,’ like it’s a person or something. Then she asks, ’If we offer you the job, will you take it?’ I asked her if this meant she was offering me the job, and she said no, but she wanted to know if I would take it if she offered it.”

“Yeah. She did exactly the same thing with me. After she told me that I was lucky Serena had gotten hurt.…” He paused for a moment. He had heard from Eliza that Serena had been taken off life support and was likely to die within days. Larisa looked up for a second, but said nothing. He hesitated, but kept going. “Maybe I should have tried that approach with you. But I’m too afraid of rejection.” Warren had his mouth full of thigh meat and stuffed in a few french fries.

“As I recall, you never asked,” she said petulantly.

“That’s right. You basically raped me. So then what’d she say?”

“Well, I told her I’d take it if she offered it, and then she said that I was hired. Forty-two five to start, with a bonus in January. I’ll be in the Investment Banking Group as an associate, on the thirty-second floor. What do you mean I
raped
you?”

“God, who woulda believed that not only would I become Joe Bonds, but I’d be dating one, too. Not that long ago, I didn’t even know what an investment banker was. Only I would’ve bet they didn’t have bodies like yours.”

“Really, what did you think you’d be?” Larisa looked at him with her head cocked to one side.

“Remember? Don’t you ever listen to me when I talk to you?” he whined in a falsetto, and ducked as a french fry flew by his head. “Hey! I don’t know. Honestly. A tennis pro. Or bum. Or work in advertising or something. In college, they told me I was an underachiever.” Warren shrugged.

“C’mon. a full scholarship to Brown, and you just hung out? You never told me how you got into Columbia Business School if you were so lazy.” Larisa had worked incredibly hard at UVA and earned a 3.75 GPA. Warren’s had been 2.8.

“I got really good GMAT scores, and I also had a friend who was a graduate. He wrote me a great recommendation, once he saw my GMATs.”

“What do you mean by great scores?” Larisa was curious. And competitive. Somehow, this topic had never come up before.

“They were good, or at least people said so.” Warren hated these discussions and was glad he hadn’t had one since freshman year in college.

“How good? C’mon. I want to know how big a supergenius I’m sleeping with. Get a handle on the gene pool.” Larisa was acting playful now, but he could see an intensity in her eyes.

“I don’t really remember. Somewhere around seven hundred or so, I think.” He tried to let it slide. He had scored a 760.

“Okay, you’re not going to tell me. Fine. I got a 1340 and a 690. It was the second-best GMAT from Northwestern, according to the counselor’s office.” Larisa was proud of her score. She’d studied for three months preparing.

“Wow. Jesus. That’s an impressive score. For someone with big or little tits.” Warren tried to get off the subject with an inane chauvinist joke. It worked.

“I don’t think Jillene was looking at my chest when she hired me at Weldon,” she sniffed.

“Do you think she knows we’re not just pals’?”

“Yeah. I mean, either that or she thinks you recommended me so strongly just to try to get into my pants. Actually, she let it slip that you are considered a star already, otherwise they’d never have let me skip the on-campus interviews. So, I do owe you something. Anyway, Weldon’s evidently got a lot of that kind of stuff going on. One of the women that interviewed me started telling me all about the affairs—she said that with the hours you work, you can’t help it.”

“Oh, I see. It’s like, after twenty hours in the office, you get so horny that you just grab the first managing director you see and hump till dawn. And then, you get a free cab ride home on the company.”

“Exactly. Hey, I’d fuck you for cab fare.” Larisa shoved him playfully.

“My dear,” he said, rolling on top of her and crushing the carton of chicken, “why do I have the sneaking suspicion that you already have?”

fifteen

In the next few months, as spring thawed the monotony out of city regimens, Warren still felt that he was on probation at work, but the action, and the size of the transactions, quickly forced him to concentrate and not worry about mistakes. To experienced people, it was easy to keep straight who wanted bids, and who wanted offers, but the language was startlingly imprecise and it was easy to get confused. Still, his worst error was only using a wrong settlement date for a small trade, a minor infraction that was caught by an assistant, and rated but a mild admonishment from Dougherty.

“Screw up like that again, son, and you’ll be driving a school bus back in Binghamton,” Dougherty had scolded him, half jokingly. Later that same day, the older man had stopped by Warren’s desk and, to his surprise, invited him to dinner. “Not out at some lousy steak house. At my house. With my wife. Bring your girlfriend from upstairs.” Warren winced. He’d been trying to keep his relationship with Larisa quiet. Warren accepted, but said he’d have to check on Larisa ’s availability. Corporate Finance associates hardly had time to go home and change at night. Six or even seven eighteen-hour days in a week was not an uncommon schedule.